


Hands Full

by MeltyRum



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Durarara!!, Overwatch (Video Game), VA-11 Hall-A (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Femdom, Lesbian Sex, Multi, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Straight Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Summary: Two couples, each with their own mute.
Relationships: Jill Stingray/Celty Sturluson, Moira O'Deorain/Joseph Wilson
Kudos: 2
Collections: Boku no Hero Academia x Persona





	Hands Full

“Hey, Celty—come here a second, would you?” asked Jill, as she unsubtly sat down onto their bed. They had only just gotten in from the cool Gotham autumn, so it was no surprise that Jill was in the mood for something warm. And it would be a good idea to get ahead of Celty before she started changing, since… there wouldn’t be any point in doing so, if Jill got her way. An evening away from the bar—well, away from _Valhalla_ , but _at_ the bar—meant Jill had gotten plenty of drinks to warm herself up with, but that often didn’t compare to heat that was a bit more genuine and intense.

It was a shame that this woman wouldn’t also be able to enjoy that faint warmth—or any of the other dubiously beneficial effects of alcohol. What would Celty even look like drunk? Would her usual sweet demeanor be replaced with something else? For some reason, Jill couldn’t help suspecting she’d be the type to become embarrassed and emotional and clumsy and she  _really_ wanted to see it.

Well, there were other ways of ingesting alcohol, right? Maybe one day.

“Hey, come over here!” Jill repeated, resisting the urge to laugh, which bubbled up inside her seemingly out of nowhere.

_Do I get to get comfortable first?_ Somehow, there was a playfulness in her signs, as though she’d already figured out what Jill was up to.

“No!”

_Are you drunk?_ asked Celty as she approached. 

Yes. “You know how hard it is for me to get drunk, right?”

_That was a lot of shots, wasn’t it?_

It sure was. “It’s the only way, and—and that’s not important right now,” she insisted, taking Celty’s gloved hands into hers so as to silence her. Much easier than silencing someone with a kiss—although she could do this too, she reflected, pulling one of Celty’s hands to her face and allowing her lips to lightly graze against the knuckles of a glove, at the same time directing her gaze up toward the dark visor of Celty’s helmet.

The gloves were rather heavy duty riding gloves, of course—not suitable for transferring kisses—but Jill couldn’t yet bring herself to pull them off, finding them just a little too sexy now that she’d gotten herself wrapped up in the moment. She kissed Celty’s fingers a little more earnestly, whether the other could feel it or not, before reaching around to Celty’s back, pulling her against where she waited on the bed, coaxing her legs up onto the mattress so that her favorite biker girl was now straddling her, face-to-helmet.

Amazingly, Jill almost thought she could see a trace of excitement or embarrassment in that helmet. She leaned in to give it a kiss, holding it a long time and wondering—hoping—wishing—that Celty might somehow feel it, at the same time raising a hand to the zipper at the top of Celty’s motorcycle jacket, slowly parting the zipper so that she could invite her hands beneath it and give her something to  _really_ feel.

She pulled her lips from his, looking him in the eyes and giving him a magisterial little smirk before hooking a finger into his belt, tugging him along.

While “routine” wasn’t the right word for it, the time had come for Moira to apply a small firmware update for the speaker Joseph had taken to wearing. She could have put together a new one, of course—and probably would at some point, given that they would be convenient to have—but it’s not as though the equipment was cheap, even if the most  _sensitive_ parts belonged to the implant she’d tucked into Joseph’s throat, making it much more difficult to fine-tune—so it was a good thing that it had worked, wasn’t it?

In any case, since Joseph’s “friend” might cause her to take future work down this road, it made sense for her to iterate on the design a bit—to tweak bits here and there on the prototype that Joseph carried, so that she could find what worked best. This work was more or less done: the update itself wouldn’t take much time, but there was a battery of tests that would immediately kick off upon the update’s completion, and it wouldn’t do any good for the two of them to simply stand around waiting like a couple of idiots.

It was for  _that_ reason that Moira had taken Joseph back upstairs—back to her bed.

While she hadn’t bound him just  _yet_ , she had already forbidden him from using his sign language. Of course, even if he  _did_ try to use it, she could always force Angela to stop translating—an imbalance of power and communication between them that Moira was all-too-happy to maintain. Even if he couldn’t use his words, the important things remained: Joseph’s face, of course, revealed every nuanced little feeling that ran through him. Perhaps necessity had gotten him used to being expressive with his attractive facial features, being (until recently) a voiceless young man who was never known to waste an opportunity to ply his handsome looks or his puppy dog eyes toward any advantage.

Yet he seemed to surrender  _all_ claim to “advantage” when he was with her, although whether it was out of deference to her age or her attitude, she wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, Moira was used to getting what she wanted, so it was fortunate that he played along.

She lead him into the bedroom, giving him a confident little smirk as she cocked her head toward the mattress. “So? Onto the bed, Joseph.” To assist him, she put a finger to his chest, forcing him down onto his back before climbing atop him, leaning in to tickle his scar with her tongue and lips and feeling him shudder silently, uselessly beneath her.

At some point, Jill had thrown Celty down onto the bed and forced a switch in positions, straddling her partner as she pulled the other’s hands to her sides, encouraging Celty’s fingers to slip up under her shirt and get a taste of flesh. When Jill was well and ready for it—in the mood, as they say—her girlfriend’s touch was nearly intoxicating as everything she’d imbibed that evening, Celty’s palms feeling implausibly hot and soft and hard against her sides, her back, her chest—whatever it was they touched.

Of course, this was enhanced by something else, in a way: when Celty touched her, it meant that she rendered herself unable to speak. Sometimes, that was a little sad. Sometimes it was even scary—it was rare, but sometimes Jill would second-guess herself on whether or not Celty was enjoying herself, since Celty’s methods of providing “feedback” were a bit more limited than partners she’d had in the past. But being relentlessly intimate with someone who could not easily say  _no_ was exciting for all kinds of reasons, and Jill hoped it didn’t make her a bad person to feel that way—it wasn’t as though she could control what warmed and exhilarated her core, could she?

The truth was that Jill didn’t really see herself as a dominant personality or anything like that—whether in the bedroom or out—but she had to admit there was a certain ticklish aspect to the way their intimacy meant that communication became a one-way street, as though Celty were surrendering her ability or right to complain, adjust, or instruct, instead silently doing whatever Jill wished or accepting whatever Jill planned to do to  _her_ . In practice, of course, this was only half true: in the beginning, at least (and after their dizzying first night), it hadn’t been uncommon for things to proceed a bit more slowly—for one of them to ask the other about this or that.

Thinking about it that way makes it  _sound_ dull, she realized, smiling down at her partner as she slowly slid the fabric of her shirt up, enjoying the way her body, as its state of dress was compromised further and further, was framed by the sexy leather jacket—which Jill had refused to let her take off—and the shirt Jill had just rolled up above her chest.

Yes, the slowed communication could provide some occasional speed bumps. But sometimes the frustration and impatience born in those instances just made the rewards all the more gratifying. With this in mind, Jill dove in, kissing Celty’s firm belly and rising from there, kissing the soft flesh of her breast before flitting her tongue out to tease one of her nipples, which earned Jill some of the only communication Celty could manage at this juncture, her entire body tensing briefly as an obvious shudder ran up and down her body.

Jill allowed herself a mischievous, hungry little smile before she dove in more earnestly. That was the first one, she thought; the first of Celty’s reactions that would have signaled—in someone with a more traditional physiology—that desperate and sensitive sensation of breathlessness that came from such sharp pleasure—the kind of thrill that Jill could enjoy secondhand. It was not uncommon for Celty to nearly take on the role of “her possession”, quietly allowing herself to be toyed with, the only evidence of her pleasure being issued through the rhythmic vibrations and throbbing tremors of her body.

Hopefully, by the end of night, Jill will have lost count of these moments.

With a shock of pleasure and a shark intake of breath, Moira released one of her nipples from Joseph’s mouth, resisting the urge to shudder, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. She slid back down his body, letting herself rub teasingly against his shaft, still a long way from actually allowing him to enter.

Joseph continued to lie there and take it, of course, a satisfying cocktail of emotions running across his face for her to enjoy.

She lifted a finger—as she often did—to his scar, her fingertip barely touching his skin as she slid it to the front of his throat—just below his Adam’s apple—and then down along his chest, feeling the strength in his pectorals as she passed through, stopping with a palm on his firm abdomen. It’s not that she was particularly attracted to muscular men, but this  _was_ part of what made her time with Joseph so satisfying. Moira quite enjoyed letting her fingers play over his muscles, evaluating the power within them. 

Power that he couldn’t use.

As a man—and one who was essentially a hero for fun—it made sense that his physical strength could overcome hers by any measure. At any instant, he could stop it all. Likely he would not have much difficulty snapping her neck or holding her down and doing whatever damage he pleased, but… it seemed this athletic, powerful man would happily allow Moira to do whatever  _she_ pleased, instead. When he prostrated himself before her, lying uselessly as she toyed with the both of them, his submission was convincing—regardless of his advantages, he wanted to  _serve_ .

Indeed, Joseph was in many ways more like a pet than a lover, and that could be said for their relationship both in  _and_ out of the bedroom; she couldn’t be entirely sure why he let her get away with it all—her smug attitude, the control she held over him—but it could be that he was simply some sort of masochist.

But… only for her, perhaps? She had forced a number of stories out of his hands, after all, and it seemed that only the ones starring  _her_ involved being tortured and teased and demeaned, verbally and otherwise. No one else had the privilege of taking his hands and some bondage tape and trapping him into a position of permanent prayer, did they?

With all of the biker gear now tossed to one side—except for the helmet—Celty had been left in nothing but her t-shirt, which made for an appealing sight all on its own. What’s more, Celty had apparently decided that it was  _her_ turn, having caught Jill while she was distracted removing her  _own_ clothing, which left the bartender on her back, looking up from her sheets and again trying to see what might be inside that helmet.

Her eyes closed soon enough, however, as Celty’s hands began to work on her, inadvertently forcing out short little gasps as her body tried to grow accustomed to the surprising shocks of sensitivity that managed to break through the slightly numbing fog of inebriation that still hung over her, Celty’s body feeling as though it were scalding hot against her own—as though whatever it did to her would be far too much.

It reminded her a little of their first time, only now their positions had been reversed. It was a good memory for Jill; she hadn’t expected Celty to have no experience whatsoever, so it had been an exciting opportunity not only to teach what was generally accepted as “good”, but to learn all over again what sort of things appealed to someone less experienced. In time, she had been happy to share her little toy-box with Celty, ever-ready to discover what the both of them enjoyed best. And while being with someone inexperienced could sometimes result in situations that were embarrassing, funny, awkward, or even disappointing… for the most part, her time with Celty had gone surprisingly smoothly.

Really, Jill have been lucky to get such a good response out of Celty  _at all_ on their first night, where she’d essentially pounced her brand new girlfriend in an effort to get past the jitters that came with such a risky confession.

Some things were new for Jill too, of course. Probably nothing could have really prepared her for the  _versatility_ of Celty’s quirk, which they had begun to experiment with little by little. Jill herself, of course, had been with women and men and one way or another had already learned what it was like to feel breathlessly full and dizzy from the impact of something big and strong finding her deepest spots… but there was a different flavor of excitement that came from feeling Celty inside her (something that were part of her “head”, as it were?), or from putting a part of Celty inside  _Celty._

How did something like that feel? she wondered. Could Celty really make out any sensations from the smoky appendages she made? It almost seemed that way… sometimes.

Just another thing to discuss, she supposed; perhaps when they were less distracted—when their hands had stopped exploring each other and when Jill’s lips had surrendered their claim to Celty’s visor, neck, shoulders.

Celty’s hands did come away for just a brief moment, though:  _Do you want to be touched there? Or… inside?_

Jill resisted the urge to laugh, wondering why Celty even had to ask. “Put them in,” she begged, her voice having been embarrassingly reduced to a breathless whisper.

Even though she’d secured his hands together, it wasn’t difficult to free a finger or two for her own pleasure, hovering above him and bringing his hands between her thighs and “letting” him feel her. Moira would never want to leave a partner unsatisfied, of course, but it was important—especially when they were someone with a disposition like Joseph’s—that they understand the highest priority was  _her_ pleasure, and that they were a convenient toy for attaining that.

Some played along better than others. So it was best to keep those ones around.

And who would have thought that one of her favorite “lovers” would end up being—of all people—the son of an old family friend? A mere boy only barely half her own age, set up in a cushy do-nothing office job by a mother that spoiled him, probably in an effort to make up for the sins of the boy’s father, who likely would be sticking his nose uncomfortably close to the lot of them, considering recent developments. Joey probably even  _liked_ it, unfortunately.

But perhaps this  _unique_ upbringing is what made him so docile around her. When polite society would see everything he had ever achieved as a result of nepotism (to use his own words), perhaps he enjoyed being in the presence of someone who wouldn’t coddle him so much—or if she  _did_ , it would be her own flavor of coddling, tinged with a disdain he might not get from anyone else.

Except his father, maybe?

Moira smirked, shaking her head and deciding to abandon this line of thinking before it got any stranger. It wasn’t as though Joseph  _required_ justification for wanting to feel secondary to her. If she was completely honest with herself and everyone else, she would admit that she  _did_ feel she was superior to most people; seeing that the world was unprepared for her research was essentially  _proof_ of this. In those days, it had felt like she was the lone sane human on the planet.

Things had calmed down now, of course: her resentment of the world remained, but it had cooled to something that she and the rest of humanity would be able to live with. And even though she had been able to retire comfortably, it wasn’t as though she was unable to continue more mild research in her own time.

In short, there was little about the present that Moira need complain about: she could find other ways to fill her time and satisfy herself both intellectually and physically.

And—ah, yes. They were in the middle of the latter, weren’t they?

She pulled Joseph’s fingers from the moist slit between her legs, her mind and body having reached that hazy fog of pleasure that came in just those right moments, when one was pleased with themselves and their partner and gotten themselves feeling plenty drunk and sensual even without the assistance of alcohol. Moira could tell from the look in Joseph’s eyes that he was in the same state, although  _his_ gaze hid a bit more desperation and frustration than hers.

“Ah… you’re looking quite ready, Joseph. You want to go inside now, I imagine.”

She felt his hands strain briefly against the bondage tape, her lip curling into a smirk at how small and useless his attempt looked.

Amused, she took his now-slick fingers, guiding them to his own cock and letting him stroke himself with them, spreading her juices along his shaft. She didn’t have to look at his face to see his frustration—she could feel it in the hands she now held, sensing what might almost be described as  _fury_ at this injustice—at the fact that she would not yet give herself to him and instead insisted on continuing to torture him, letting him get brief glimpses of pleasure before the real thing. Little did he know that she was  _quite_ confident that he liked it nearly as much as she did.

“Patience, Joseph,” she assured him with a thin smile, leaning in to lick some of her own fluids off of him. “Have I ever left you wanting?”

Everything got rather hot. Not just in the conceptual sense, where one might see another person and think  _oh no, they’re hot—_ but in every other possible physical sense, as well. Her skin, her touch, the way her body moved, and  _especially_ the deep, soaked area between her legs, where Jill had eagerly buried her fingers, which felt so warm that they just might melt if she wasn’t careful. She wouldn’t be deterred, though, and continued to turn her fingers this way and that way, trying to find the angle that would allow her to see Celty go through the same fits of lightheaded pleasure that she’d just endured.

They were both gentle enough creatures, Jill felt, but sometimes passion led to one thing or another: she had realized rather recently, in fact, that she quite liked getting her hair pulled. And given how often she wore it up into a ponytail or pair of twin-tails, her hair was a convenient implement for pleasure—another fun little handle to be played with in the bedroom, particularly if Celty ever wanted to ride  _her_ like a motorcycle.

This, among the other bedroom dynamics between the two of them, made things fun. That was probably obvious. It made things… worth it— _more_ than worth it.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t occasional difficulties. Jill hesitated to call them “defects”, but it was at least true that dating someone like Celty had its downsides, as dear to her as their relationship was. Of course, Jill had known very well—ahead of time—that her lover lacking a face would mean having to give up on a few things here and there, but it still surprised her how strongly she might long for that which would never exist. 

It didn’t happen frequently, but in the two years that their happy relationship had lasted, it wasn’t unusual for there to be a day where Jill just wished she could press her lips to Celty’s—to hold her girlfriend’s face in her hands and run her fingers through her hair, the way Celty did to  _her_ . Celty herself would never hear about this, though—not if it was up to Jill. It might ache sometimes, but she would have to learn to live with never knowing what it would be like to hear her name being called out by Celty’s voice, whatever it was that this might sound like.

In the end, though, none of that mattered. Because…

Because she was in love. And how couldn’t she be? Celty’s lack of a head wasn’t the only inhuman thing about her: she was unreasonably kind and sweet and sensitive. Everyone had bad days— and goodness knows Celty had gone through  _plenty_ of those—but when a normal person had a bad day, they got upset, or frustrated, or angry… but did Celty? Had Jill ever seen her girlfriend  _mad_ ? It would be hard for Jill to tell in any case, but she liked to think that she had gotten rather good at reading Celty’s overall body language, even if it lacked the face required to convey emotions more traditionally.

Jill was not exactly a late bloomer—especially not compared to Celty—so she’d had a handful of long-term partners ever since she was far too young to make educated decisions regarding love and lust, but she had still learned what love felt like—had at least gotten familiar with its  _flavor_ . But it had never been nearly so rich as this. Being with someone so strong and kind and unique didn’t remove the friction from relationships, but it provided a different _kind_ of friction, like the kind that occurred when gears slowly turned one another in a collective effort toward something greater, rather than the kind of friction that got you rug burn.

There had always been—for lack of a better word— _drama_ , and this was regrettably her fault just about as often as it was her lover’s. Her last relationship of any real significance had ended poorly and, unfortunately, Jill was keenly aware of where the fault in this lie. But she’d been through it; it was over, and now she had someone new, and while Jill was confident that the same issues would not rise between them, she couldn’t help the uncomfortable feeling that if things  _did—_ somehow—go wrong, then the blame again would fall into her own lap. Celty was too… unique. Too sweet. “Drama” probably didn’t even exist for her—not  _that_ sort of drama, anyway.

She thought: Well… I’ll just have to do better, won’t I? Try harder. Just because she was the weak point in this relationship didn’t mean that there was any guarantee they were going to have complications on the horizon. Of course, they  _would_ , because any relationship had “complications”, but other than that…?

While the rest of their bodies touched, she reached an arm across the sheets, folding her fingers together with Celty’s as she gave herself to her. She could swear that it was more than just Celty’s body that she felt.

Jill had to tell her, she realized. Now was good, right?

They were preoccupied, though, so it couldn’t be done in sign language. She leaned in close as they felt each other, still wet and sticky and hot, and pressed her cheek to the side of Celty’s helmet, bringing her lips close to where her ears just might be, if she had any, and barely managed between gasps: “I love you.”

When it came to Moira,  _love_ is not the word she would use to describe the affection she felt for someone like Joseph. They might charitably be described as “friends”, albeit ones with quite a strange dynamic. It wasn’t something Moira would often allow herself to dwell on, but they were… close, in a way. It wasn’t as though she were constantly filled with the desire to be nasty and spiteful toward the people around her, but Joseph had  _rewarded_ her for speaking to him in certain ways—for treating him as though he existed for her own pleasure, be it for a verbal lashing or one best delivered between the sheets.

Because Joseph seemed to understand that part of her, for better or worse—knowing that she  _did_ have a bit of an unkind streak, good-humored though it was (in her own opinion), and that an air of disdain was something that had become baked into her character. 

Why did such a young, well-to-do, all-American “golden boy” understand that about her, then?

Part of her wondered if it was something that they simply shared. She knew that they were hardly exclusive partners, after all, and the marks on his arms told stories that didn’t seem to star the same bright-eyed young man he presented to everyone. Yet… she didn’t exactly feel that the Joseph she knew was some sort of facade; he wasn’t affecting some sort of  _act_ around her. Who could, after all, when they had been stripped naked and deprived of all effective communication or autonomous human agency?

It wasn’t as if he was used to having that last one  _anyway_ , so it rather amused her that he came to her bed apparently in order to relinquish whatever freedom he’d managed to cling onto, allowing yet another relic of his parents’ past mute him again before they played.

Maybe—one day—Joseph would employ his quirk, possess her, and play with his body all on his own; wouldn’t that be a good bit of fun? Although it was rather more likely that—if he did use his quirk—he would possess her only to make her do something a bit strange and embarrassing, given the chance… but perhaps Moira was simply projecting.

It made her curious, though. Joseph was such an obedient boy. If she commanded him to possess her and do  _nothing_ to her body once it was his, would he obey?

He just might.

Something for another day, perhaps. For today—and for many other days past and future—he was  _hers_ . She had a good way of showing him that this was so—a special gesture, just for today.

Moira ceased teasing his head and pulled her mouth away from the end of his cock, enjoying the way his body briefly relaxed at this bit of mercy. As always, however, it was accompanied with a brief look of frustration—even he should know by now that he certainly wouldn’t be finishing if  _she_ didn’t. The torture was far from over, however, and she gently pressed his dick back against him, letting it lie firm up against him, pointing up toward his abdomen. Then she sank further, pushing his hips back and using her thumb to lift his balls and reveal her target.

She couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the look on his face, and considered this to be enough of a taunt—a good little demonstration of her confidence… and of the fact that she could do whatever she liked. Moira gave him another little smirk—like a challenge. Would he stop her?

She did not think so.

With nothing further ado, she leaned in, bringing her warm, wet tongue close and pressing it to a spot they had rarely toyed with.

Even with smoke that allowed her to see for entire city blocks, Celty never saw it coming. By the time Jill had slipped her tongue between those smooth cheeks of hers, she was ready for whatever reaction her girlfriend might give her. Jill continued to lick and kiss as a rush of excitement ran up and down her entire body, her hands firmly planted as she forced apart the thighs which now seemed to be trying to crush her head between them. At the same time, she looked up and met Celty’s gaze (she was pretty sure, anyway) with an amused look, ignoring the desperate pair of hands which had found their way into her hair.

This maneuver had been intended as a gift and distraction from the earlier confession, Jill having been too embarrassed by it to await a response—or even to look into the face of Celty’s helmet and guess at whatever feelings she might have been left with. A little manipulative? Maybe. But as she pressed her tongue to a precious spot that had hitherto gone untouched, she could tell that Celty’s flailing was not the kind born from distaste or distress—and Jill was certain that her girlfriend could easily fight her off, anyway.

That didn’t mean that there wasn’t a decent dose of  _panic_ present, but—as far as Jill could tell—it was the good kind.

So it wasn’t very long before the flailing ceased, replaced with a different sort of silent shuddering as every muscle in Celty’s body seemed to contract, from her toes and her fingers to her arms, legs, back, belly, shoulders—everything caught in a mysteriously alluring limbo of tense tremors, her body looking almost as though it were being electrocuted. But from her position between Celty’s legs, Jill could very easily recognize the waves of pleasure diffusing through her.

She gave everything a few more appreciative kisses before getting back onto her hands and knees, crawling over to her partner and collapsing beside her, nearly as exhausted as  _she_ was. She let one of her hands travel up Celty’s sweat-beaded body to rest on the far cheek of Celty’s helmet, resisting the urge to move her hand to the strap and slip it off of her, now that they’d gotten this far.

Jill didn’t say anything, still happy with the last words that she’d said, and not overly eager to force a response out of Celty, even if the suspense brought some anxious fluttery feelings to her stomach. She let her thoughts and feelings run their course as the two of them returned to Earth, thinking of all the various domestic couple activities she’d soon hopefully be doing with her girlfriend, including—of course—those which might feature in the bedroom.

For instance, there was that scythe. Maybe one day Celty would knock  _her_ out with it one day, and her cool biker girlfriend could play with her during her moments of unconsciousness, her body lying uselessly and ever-yielding.

One could only hope.


End file.
